Runway Jury: Generation Frill

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A DIVERSE GROUP OF AMERICANS who have been trained to varying degrees are plunged into a harrowing series of situations in which they must pull strength, courage and resourcefulness from deep reserves in battle after battle, knowing all the while that nothing less than the future of their kind is at stake. Not all of them will come back.

Tell me "Project Runway" isn't "Generation Kill" for queens.

OK, so I stole that from My Heterosexual Viewing Companion (MHVC), who crowed, "You're writing it down!" as he extemporized thrillingly throughout the show. (He's angling for a spot as guest-blogger, too; can't a girl grow some coattails before someone starts riding them?)

But taking in the hourlong majesty of muslin and tears that is the season premiere of "PR, Part Cinq" had the same hallucinatory effect of trying to sort out Hit Man One from Hit Man Two amid the dust storms and face-obscuring helmets of HBO's wartime sausage-hang. So many people! Such bitchiness! They're here to win, not make friends! This is not a game, it's a war — uh, a competition! Sure, they trained for this, but when it's crunch-time or go-time or Hammer-time or whatever the kids are calling it these days, they're beflummoxed and getting pelted by sequins and mop heads.

Oh, the humidity!

NO, REALLY, ARE YOU HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS?
In a blur, we meet this season's crop of scissor-monkeys, and, sister, are they bringing the hot air. Jerell designs for "a very select group of people" (read: mom, dog); Blayne the surfer-barista is the exact color of a toasted traffic pylon; Stella designs for rock stars, Sebastian Bach, hookers (same things); Jennifer seems goofy but has an alluring surreal aesthetic; Kelli's post-punk and v. v. V. Westwood; Jerry is so not 32 — shut up, Jerry, with your dull-as-dishpan-hands Donna Karan portfolio; Suede calls himself Suede — in the third person — so enough said; Korto's wafty dresses are pretty and Uli-like; Leanne calls herself the "silent fashion assassin" (silent but ... deadly?); hot Wesley designs ugly clothes for Marc Jacobs, who only makes pretty clothes, so that's weird; Kenley's got the Bettie Page thing going, so we get it, honey; Daniel works in an aviary on the Island of Dr. Moreau. Terri's fast; Emily's pretty; creepy Keith is a close talker.

So your hosts Heidi and Tim are back — Mommy's in a cute red leopard-print mini with a wide patent belt that I'm pretty sure is Alexander McQueen; Daddy looks purrfect in a dark suit and pink tie.

They welcome the contestants to the customary Atlas rooftop kickoff party, dangling Moet bottles coquettishly before the parched and wary designers, who are pretty sure their challenge ... starts ... NOW. But in a twist, they are not directed to hurl themselves off the rooftop and rip clothes from pedestrians on the streets below to create a red-carpet look for Ann Curry or anything; they are allowed to down a glass of bubbly and go to bed.

For, like two hours. Tim Gunn rouses the sleepyheads (Jennifer opens the door to him in a towel — lifelong dream No. 4, fulfilled). Before getting out of bed, Keith takes a swig from a huge glass bottle with the label blurred out. It's probably SmartWater. I hear it goes great with a whisper of vermouth. They shuffle out to the street, where they are greeted by OMG IT'S AUSTIN SCARLETT!!! We love you, Austin! You got robbed. His hair looks like freshly baked meringue. ("It's Scarlett O'Hairdo!" cries MHVC. He never gets tired of that.) As Austin was the winner of the very first challenge on the very first "PR," and they're standing in front of Gristede's market, the designers catch on that the show's producers are finally out of fresh ideas.

WHO BROUGHT THE CHICKEN SALAD?
The designers troll the aisles, dropping hand-carried items left and right (are they not allowed carts?). Almost everyone grabs vinyl picnic-table covers, shower curtains and trash bags, because they are idiots who equate "innovation" with "no-sew Hefty glamour." Terri, who has climbed into a mental happy place that's very entertaining to watch, notes, "My strategy is: mop heads, mop heads, mop heads." Korto notes that kale — "That's gonna be my wow factor."

Stupid Suede admits he's seen the previous grocery-store challenge, but "never really thought about, 'What would I do?'" Moron. Really? Even I've thought about it, and my Motrin-and-Cap'n Crunch gown will kill on the runway, believe.

MYSTERY SEWING MACHINE THEATER
Back in the workroom, the designers divide themselves into two camps: those who give a crap, and those who make picnic-tablecloth shifts. Kelli's fabulously grunge-dyed vacuum-cleaner bag skirt is genius; Joe's theme is Italian, which looks a lot prettier than it sounds — it sounds like an ax murder, which brings us to Jerry, who's fashioning a shower curtain into sort of chic mental-hospital coat. Daniel is melting and molding blue plastic cups into a sleeveless frock. Terri's plaiting mop threads. Korto arranges her kale as a frill trim over a structurally bold yellow dress.

Jerell? No more Tim Gunn impressions. That ship has sailed. Blayne? Say "girlicious" one more time and I will personally smack the tan off your Nauga-hide. Also, you sniffle a lot. Maybe you're allergic — to all that cocaine you're snorting. Stella? You can't dress or style yourself, Debbie Downer; please put the buttcrack away.

THE TEDDY BORES' PICNIC
Heidi and her lank hair and a thinner version of the McQueen belt introduce the prizes and judges. Michael Kors, Neena Gahcia and my gay boyfriend Austin Scarlett will read the beads.

Emily: A beigey satin lingerie shift with a crazy huge teal collar made out of balloons and a bouncy ball.

Jerell: Pretty, wearable, lace-like ivory skirt with striped blue asymmetrical bodice made from lawn chairs — shades of Nora's lovely blue dress in the original challenge, made from woven chair webbing.

Leanne: Frilly pink mess of candy, cookies and muslin pocked with random coffee filters. Oh, Silent but Deadly, you are no Mychael Knight.

Korto: It's a tablecloth, but I can't say enough about the proportions of this dress. It's demure and ladylike, not the lazy little Paris Hilton shifts many other designers ran up, and the kale and tomatoes shimmer like jewels.

Jennifer: Paper towels ruffled in tiers for the skirt, sleeveless bodice top that took four minutes to make. Color: zero.

Daniel: Paper-cup dress glistens and fits the hulking, bad-postured model very well.

Terri: Crocheted mop top is cute; blah tomato-colored skirt, not so much.

Suede: Wrapped model in tablecloth. Go home and take your blue-dyed fauxhawk with you.

Stella: Garbage-bag dress, because it's 1979 in her head.

Joe's "Big Night" costume has pasta on the swingy skirt and an adorable oven-mitt bodice with an Italian theme. It's charming and doesn't look like a grade-school macaroni-picture; the skirt, in fact, looks like a Missoni design. Nice styling, too, shoewise.

The skirt of Kenley's dodgeball-and-lawn chair ensemble can't be faulted — three large swoops of material combine in an interesting way, and it has a terrific, futuristic silhouette. The bodice looks like a halved dodgeball cupped over boobs.

Deep breath. OK, Jerry made a shower-curtain raincoat with sleeves, collar, lining and closures. It billows over a white shift dress and is finished with creepy yellow scrub gloves and white go-go boots. I love it. (Please hit "Comment," below, to leave angry remarks.) It's well-designed, it looks like clothes, its provenance as supermarket desperation-purchase is fully obscured. None of these bitches can sew a sleeve if their lives depended on it, and this looks like some zany couture thing Hussein Chalayan would not be ashamed to send down the runway. So maybe the theme is Serial Killer or Bughouse or Escape From Dr. Freakazoid's Laboratory of Doom, but it beats a damn tablecloth wrapped around an 80-pound mannequin who'd look good in a, why, a garbage bag. A GARBAGE BAG. Is there anybody out there?

Wesley made the world's smallest dress (yellow tablecloth — yawn) and is cute but self-deluded.

And while we're on the subject, Blayne does not see what we see. Blayne's responses to the world are not filtered through any reality that is familiar to most sentient beings. He thinks his model, in her mesh International Male romper and saggy woven diaper "looks amazing walking down the runway. ... I'm thinking I'm gonna win this!" he sing-songs.

Kelli's "gritty-print" skirt is gorgeous; the grunge print is softened by a girlish silhouette, and she's made a corset closure up the back out of hooks from a spiral-bound notebook. The only lazy note is the coffee-filter bra Tim Gunn called her on earlier. Seriously, people, get to know a woman's top half. Then your model won't look like Gilligan wearing two coconuts strung together with vine for the island talent show.

Keith: Tablecloth scrunched in various places and annoyed by bits of angry netting.

TRASH TALK
Daniel, Jerry, Korto, Stella, Kelli, Blayne, please step forward.

They loved Daniel's cup cocktail shift, Korto's yellow Balenciaga dress with side-salad, and Kelli's dyed vacuum-cleaner bags.

They are mean to Jerry. I don't want to talk about. If any of these judges had balls, they'd light a match under Stella's garbage-bag dress. Guess the woman who buys this little number won't be attending any of the tablecloth ladies' picnics. They confront but fail to un-delude Blayne in re his towering talent. Kors may just be jealous of his Code Orange skin; you know he and Jay Manuel get together and exchange tips.

Kelli wins immunity; Jerry is shockingly, to me, out. One last word on this. Kors actually says something interesting about Stella: "It doesn't make me curious." I think that's an excellent point. Stella seems bereft of inspiration and enervated, not activated, by a challenge. I don't care to see what else she's got in her bag of tricks. Whereas (die, dead horse, die again!), I was curious to see where Jerry would take his next design — he's got something. Stella has nothing. Already I am irked in the extreme at the judging on this show.

Next week: Bitching, moaning, blaming. Tim Gunn says "Holla atcha boy!" I don't ... I don't know, y'all. What do you say?

Photos courtesy Bravo